Seven Years
by Somigliana
Summary: The progression of Rose and Scorpius' relationship over their seven years at Hogwarts


_Seven Years_

_By Somigliana_

_

* * *

__Year 1:_

Rose scowled as she trudged down to Herbology. Whoever had made waterproof wellies had obviously never lived in Scotland, she thought crossly.

Gryffindor-Slytherin first-years had just finished Herbology and crossed their path at mid-point on the sodden grounds.

Scorpius sauntered past, bone dry, and smirked. "Impervious Charm, Weaslette," he drawled.

"Bloody Know-It-All."

_Year 2:_

Rose felt an intense spasm of irritation as she surveyed the Gobstones board, eyes narrowed.

He was going to win, the little bastard. He'd manipulated her the entire game, making her doubt her strategy, making her question her logic.

"C'mon, Weaslette, make your move." Scorpius sounded bored.

She plucked her lead stone from the board with nimble fingers, and the champion rose in his seat and bowed to his House, smirking at her all the way.

_Year 3:_

I watched you read my lyrical scribblings with heart in throat. Oh, how you'd tease me if you knew the poetry was mine.

Thank Merlin my writing is penned in a smooth, Charmed script!

Your smooth brow creases as your platinum hair falls forward into a shaft of sunlight. You look like a marble god in the light.

Perhaps the one of a witch held by a neighbour in a subway train confuses you. Do you even know what the Underground is, I wonder?

You turn the page to my favourite poem and your expression is beautiful. I've never seen you taken aback by anything, amazed by anything before. You lick your lips and read the verse again and again, perhaps imprinting the flowing words on your mind.

Your elegant fingers brush the text once more, before you leave the leather-bound book where you found it.

Many years later I'd marvel at your confession: How first you knew me in a book I wrote ... how first you loved me for a written line.

_Year 4: _

In our first-year, Rose's hair was a fiery halo of curls. She's grown it long since then, and it falls in copper curls to her waist, glowing in the sunlight when I sit behind her in Arithmancy.

Her glorious hair is responsible for my first "P" and a two-page long letter of lecture from Dad. That morning I watched, entranced, and forgot to multiply my sôwilô matrix by the derivative of îsaz.

When I give into temptation and reach out to slide a satiny curl between my fingers, she whips around in her chair.

"What, Malfoy?"

Gods! I'm so embarrassed to be caught mooning like a love-sick Crup. I put on my best "father-face" and sneer, "Best wash your hair, Weasley. I think you've got Skeezers."

_Year 5:_

This Christmas holiday I practice my OWLs potions at home in the laboratory, determined to beat Rose at last.

I can never get the Truth Serum right: curdled, too opaque, the wrong shade. Never what I'm expecting.

When Mum and Aunty Daphne complain about the fumes, I Apparate to London and ride the tube; it's my favourite mindless activity, Muggle watching.

Until I see Rose in the arms of a strange man, smiling and laughing.

Relief is the sharpest emotion, I discover, when the man turns to hug his blonde wife, and his hair flickers with tell-tale blue.

_Year 6:_

They call him the little dragon, Draco's son, Malfoy, the Son of Slytherin. But being defined by who your parents are isn't fun--I know this all too well.

The masses sleepwalk and never notice that Scorpius has a beautiful smile, a gentle soul, and that he's a person apart from Draco.

When he walks behind me, just too close for comfort, my heart pounds. And then he passes, his little finger brushing my hand, leaving it tingling and my soul longing for more.

I wonder how safe it is to catch a dragon; the legends don't say...

_Year 7: _

His breath is soft and sweet against my lips, his body a warm weight above me, his grey eyes filled with wonder and concern.

"Rose?" he breathes. His white-long eyelashes flutter as his voice catches. "Rose?"

"I'm fine," I white-lie against the sharp pain that throbs with my heart. A tear streaks down my freckled cheek, and he catches it with the tip of his tongue.

"I love, you, Rose," he whispers as he starts to move within me.

* * *

A/N: Each verse was written for a prompt. These were:

1. Waterproof  
2. spasm /champion / manipulate  
3. How first you knew me in a book I wrote,/ How first you loved me for a written line / Held by a neighbor in a subway train. _Edna St. Vincent Millay _  
4. Grow  
5. Held by a neighbor in a subway train. No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring/The sought-for truth. _Edna St. Vincent Millay _  
6. mythology / dragon / sleepwalk  
7. Virgin


End file.
